Axis
by ariasune
Summary: The world turns about its axis. [character studies Atem, TKB] [cover by nagecho]
1. Antebellum

Bakura had been born to war

* * *

Bakura had been born to war. It had accompanied his first steps, shadowed his first words, and when he'd carved himself to the bone, his hateful battle with the Pharaoh was only ever expected. As anticipated as breathing, even when he died, and that breathing was borrowed.

The world was war, and the world was loss. The world was the neighbours mourning their son. The world was a square inch of fear buried in his chest.

His father had cupped his head, touched his cheek. "Never be afraid, Bakura." The sun curved over the river, casting a shadow at their feet, and warming Bakura's skin. "Our King is the child of Ra, and we are under his light, and protection."

He nestled into the rough palm of his father's hand. It had been a gentle lie, because if the war came, Bakura would be born and die under its shadow. But Bakura was young, and fear was tight in his chest. Gods were gentle things, like sunlight, like the soothing touch of his father's hand.

When his father's flesh boiled gold, and the firelight was bathed with blood, Bakura knew the war had come. That gentle things did not protect against that square inch of fear. In an instant, his world was swallowed. And in the next, and the one after. Through that amber night, Bakura's world was cracked into smaller, and smaller pieces. Sharp, angry parts that he couldn't hold in his hands without bleeding.

The world was gone. Blotted out. A child roaming the skeleton of an empty village, and feeling his ribs grow under his fingertips.

They had been animals all along. Killed like them - bled out, consumed - and now like an animal, Bakura was driven from his home by hunger. Belly aching, and skin burning in the afternoon light, Bakura moved across the river into the city. The river held life and death on each side, and though he had left his dead in the west, moving east had still felt like dying.

But - _and the whisper ran through the streets_ \- the war - _the whisper crept inside Bakura_ \- the war - _the whisper grew into hope, felt like life_ \- the war was over.

He went to see the God speak. Bakura pressed against the side of a building, fearful of the flooding crowd, but desperate to sit in the light and see the God. Hunger drove him, drew him; heart aching, and wanting. The war was over, and the God was a gentle thing.

And the God wore blood around his throat, where it gleamed and shone in the sunlight. He held his hands up, and they were clean, "The war is over!" But the blood around his neck was golden.

The people screamed. Blessed the God. Worshipped him in cries of thanks. The King had protected them. They had given the Kingdom their children, willingly, and the King had given their children back to them - hope, and life, and-

Bakura's people had died like animals. They had given their blood, and their flesh, and their bone, but not willingly. Their deaths, but not their lives. They were worth less than the screaming, burning crowd of people around him. Than the God in his palace.

Ma'at was not meant to weigh your heart down, but it sank in Bakura, like a stone in a river. He followed it, sinking to the floor. The God's hands were clean, and the People cheered, and the animal howl in Bakura's throat was drowned out.


	2. Armistice

I could live with you in peace.

* * *

He stepped into the light as it gave way to water. The river was cool around his ankles, sunbright on every side, and as Atem moved through the shallows, it pulled at the trail of his cloak like a hand. From the other side, there was the soft sound of familiar voices, and behind him, the soothing seethe of the river turning.

Light. He felt light. Light without the heavy gleam of the Puzzle at his neck, his past no longer a darkness, dug like a chasm in his gut.

Truthfully, he missed his friends. He regretted dying so young. He wished he and Kaiba could have duelled one more time. He adored his partner with the weight of his entire soul. He would have liked to have done so much more. There was so much more he could have done-

He stopped.

The Thief King was sitting in the shallow water, curled into a tight ball, snarling disjointedly with his face pressed into the hollow of his body. He didn't look up at Atem - and for everything Atem felt, the calculated weight of his regrets and affections combined, he felt light. At peace. Proud for it. Head held high as he walked into the light, and into the water, and here Bakura was, sulking in the shallows.

He could have walked onwards, but instead, a heavy sigh settling in his chest, Atem called out to Bakura: "You should come with me."

Bakura's head raised, dusky eyes catching in the light as he took Atem in. Surprise, then suspicion crossed his face, and harsh as a kicking horse, Bakura demanded, "What?"

Patient, Atem elaborated, "I'm going across the river. You should come with me."

"Why the fuck would I go anywhere with you?" Atem shrugged at Bakura's question. Half-tempted to leave Bakura to his own devices, he turned his head towards the far-side of the river. That seemed to do the trick, and Bakura staggered to his feet with a clumsy splash of water. "You can't go across the river," he snapped.

Smirking, Atem turned back towards Bakura. "And why not?"

"You can't go," Bakura insisted, voice pitching with desperation and anger. He gestured at himself wildly, hand clutching at his heart, "What will I do?"

"Hopefully? Cross the river."

"Fuck off."

Gods remind him why he was trying in the first place. Atem sighed again, tugging his cloak out of the river and wringing it thoughtfully. He heard Bakura move in his direction, water pulling noisily in warning, and Atem took a step away. "I'm not fighting you," he told Bakura, looking up to meet his scalding sunrise glare.

"You should come back with me," Bakura threw his arm out, pointing in the wrong direction. "We can go back. We can still finish this."

"We're dead," Atem tied his cloak off, keeping it out of the water. "It's done."

Stamping his foot down with a furious flush of water, Bakura's teeth flashed at Atem. "I'm not done- We're not done!"

"I'm done."

"You don't get to decide that," Bakura hissed at him, anger sharpening his stance into something angular, wolfish, ready to spring for Atem's throat.

Ignoring the sheer stain of violence in Bakura's body, Atem took a step towards him. "No, I suppose I don't." Faltering, Bakura leaned away from Atem, warily watching Atem take another step. "How long is it going to take, Bakura?"

Atem was too close, and Bakura gave a slippery snarl, stamping back in the water like a startled animal, "If you come any closer, I'll kill you. I swear I'll kill you."

"A long time then," Atem sighed, reaching the middle of the river. Pausing, Atem pulled a face, before sitting down in the water, shuddering as it soaked into his clothes. "Bakura, I am already dead. More to the point, so are you," he gestured at the place next to him, and Bakura stared at him with mingled disbelief, and fury. Studying Bakura's face, Atem huffed, and leant back in the water, "Fine. You look like an idiot though."

"I hate you."

"I'm aware."

They stared at each other, Atem's gaze lidded with boredom, and Bakura's torn open with rage. It was like watching an ocean boil; agitated and incapable of staying still. Tension burning under his skin, Bakura scoffed, marching towards Atem. Folding his arms over his chest, teeth baring, Bakura gave a disdainful sneer, "What are you doing?"

Atem tilted his head, expression strategically neutral, "Waiting for you. Obviously."

"Go to hell," Bakura spat.

"Then we'll be going the same way," Atem concluded with a snort. Before gesturing for Bakura to sit down again, "I'm not going back; our time is over-"

The snarl turned malignant, "This isn't over!"

"I know." Frustrated, Atem glowered at Bakura, patience giving out like a bone snapping. "You wanted to kill me, well I'm dead. Congratulations, was it everything you hoped it would be?" Fussing a hand through his bangs, adjusting the heavy set of his crown, Atem continued to watch Bakura with a blunted expression. "Maybe you're not done, but there is nothing more either of us can do. Except wait for you to figure that out." Grimacing, Atem pointed at the spot across from him, "If that takes another three thousand years, then it takes another three thousand years, Bakura, but in the meantime, sit down."

Bakura didn't. He stood there, staring Atem down, and it was so inevitable, so predictable, that Atem gave an amused huff.

"Fine," he conceded, "You look like an idiot though."

Atem stretched out, water lapping as he got comfortable, and for his part, Bakura merely stood there, watching Atem with a fierce, unceasing look of fire. There was a threat in his eyes, but Atem shrugged, and cocked an eyebrow at Bakura. If Bakura went for the throat, he was too late to grab it.

Instead, smirking, Atem spoke up: "We're going to be here awhile, right?" A beat, thin as a pulse. "Know any games?"


	3. Abdication

A debt of blood is paid in kind.

* * *

On the first night of peace, Akhnakanem's son burned. He thrashed and cried, sweat-sleek through the second night, lay still and silent on the third, and when the fourth night broke, the fever had already taken him. From a dynastic point of view, Radjet, firstborn of Akhnakanem, was not important; within the season, his half-brother Atem was born, and if Akhnakanem watched Atem more closely than he should, Atem's character suffered little for it.

But Radjet's death cast a long shadow; someone gone, but never forgotten. Something precious that had been lost. A grief not soon forgiven. "It is not right for a man to outlive his child," Akhnakanem told his brother, voice hoarse and face drawn. Akhnadin was silent; merely a comforting arm curled around the King's shoulders.

Atem grew headstrong, defiant as a wildcat, stubborn as sunlight, and when the secrets of the items were taught to Akhnakanem, his first thought was not of his brilliant, rebellious second son, but of Radjet. Of the fire-death that had bloomed under his skin almost spitefully. How quick the sickness had been, to burn, and to turn Radjet's life to ash. The quiet of Akhnadin's consoling touch, the guilt of it.

Akhnakanem prayed for Atem's soul, and grieved Radjet's anew, knowing there was not enough blood in either to slake this evil. Knowing, and asking anyway, Atem still and silent at his shadow.

Atem would survive his father, but die before the river receded.

* * *

The God Pyramid was warm, a living weight in his hands, and Atem raised it over his head. Broke it open on the metal of his soul. They came apart, they cleaved together. Atem was shattered, the puzzle was torn open, and they were bound together tighter, so tightly he was surprised he could still breathe. The gasp came out like a shock. A shudder. A tide of life in his throat.

He hadn't died. A cooling body in Set's arms. "It is not right for you to die," Set said, long fingers cupping Atem's face. "Not when you have saved us all. You cannot die, Atem."

Eyes glassy, grin feline, Atem laughed at him blood running down his jaw. Set - of course - dictating morality to the universe. Set - of course - calling his name after all these years.

On the first night, he bled. Bled from the mouth, and the eyes, and at the edges of his nails. A payment that would not be slaked, though Set did not despair, merely staunched at the blood with clean linen. Mana washed blood from Atem's face, and they called him by name when he drifted. Bidding him back to his body. By the second night, the matter of the blood solved itself; Atem's skin was fragile as chalk, and there was no letting blood from a stone. On the third, the breath of him died slowly, Isis straining to hear each last, hoarse sound, and by the fourth night, still grieving by his side, clutching a cool hand, Set could not remember his friend's name after all these years.

* * *

History was like a serpent, turning in on itself, and after all these years spent in darkness, he stared across the sand at Thief King Bakura, his name scalding in his heart. "You have to let them go," Atem pleads, knowing it was a cruel thing to ask, but asking anyway. "You can't live this way forever."

Bakura's face twists, teeth showing in a sunbright gleam of anger. "I will never let this go," he snarls.

And maybe he really won't, maybe none of them can; grief casting the shadow of life in everyone it touches. Maybe death is stronger than life, and loss takes, and takes, and takes - but Seto Kaiba is a changed man, but Malik Ishtar and his kin live in the light, but Atem is not the King he once was, staring across glass-burned sand at Bakura. Neither of them are Kings, not anymore, not now.

He tries to reach out. He tries. He tries, because Bakura deserves to live in the light, and of everyone Atem owes anything to, this broken, damaged monster is his brother. Bakura has made something between them, Akhnadin has fire-forged something between them, Atem cannot deny Bakura, he cannot, he cannot.

The past sinks its teeth in, a snake killing itself for the sake of staying alive. Bakura reaches for Atem's throat, for the broken item that rests between them as a wager-

There is a fire, started years ago, and running between them like rain. Horakhty burns Bakura away - his darkness, his grief, his fury, his loss consumed - and the victory leaves ashes in Atem's heart.


End file.
